She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. Mistresses neither deserve consideration nor commiseration. Behind Mrs. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. To-morrow I am going to Paris.
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